


Double Booked

by mariana_oconnor



Series: The Trouble With Roommates [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, BAMF Clint Barton, Because that's just how it happened, Bucky Barnes: Quick Change Artist, Bucky is giving them a lot of quality entertainment, Bucky would really appreciate it if everyone stopped enjoying this so much, Clint Barton's great self esteem, Deaf Clint Barton, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, Identity Porn, Janet Van Dyne as Wasp, M/M, Mild Peril, Misunderstandings, Secret Identity, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, The Avengers Are Good Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 18:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Bucky has finally managed to get a date with Clint. There's only one small problem: the guests of honour at this fancy gala are the Avengers, but he's got it covered.Clint is having a really weird night.





	Double Booked

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment in The Trouble with Roommates series. If you haven't read the others this might be a little difficult to follow so you might want to go back and read them... I mean _I_ want you to go back and read them. But if you haven't got the time all you really need to know is this:
> 
> \- Bucky and Clint are Roommates  
\- They have massive crushes on each other, but haven't got round to doing anything about it because supervillains  
\- Clint is not a superhero  
\- Bucky is a superhero  
\- Clint does not know Bucky is a superhero
> 
> Oh yeah, and Clint thinks Bucky is dating the Winter Soldier.
> 
> This installment is for the Bucky Barnes Bingo square U3: Identity Porn
> 
> I mean, I really lean in to the Identity Porn in this one. I just went for it.

Clint’s archery lessons aren’t that big a deal. At least, he doesn’t think so; he’s just doing what he enjoys, after all. They’ve got all sorts come to the classes. He’s got a couple of seventy year olds in his Thursday morning classes who like to roleplay as elves on the weekends.

A few of his classes are what Kate calls ‘outreach programmes’, though. They’re in the evenings and the only difference Clint sees is that they’re all kids and he doesn’t take any money off them. He’s been doing it for a while, because the way he sees it, playing around with a Palaeolithic weapon gave him something to hold onto when he was a kid, so it might work for someone else too.

Most of the kids are fine. He gets a few who play up, but either they settle down or they don’t come back. He tries not to think about what happens to the ones who don’t come back.

Of course, then Katie found out about the whole thing and apparently he can apply for funding or something, because it’s an ‘outreach programme’ – Clint’s just teaching them how to hold a bow, for heaven’s sakes – so she did, and the funding came through. That meant he could get new equipment, which was great, but now he’s got a gold embossed invitation to a ‘Voices of the City Gala’, whatever that might be. The writing on it’s all fancy, lots of loops and curls so you can’t hardly read the words at all.

_Mr Clinton Barton_, it says, making his name look far more elegant than it has any right to be. Apparently, he’s received this invitation because of ‘his work with at-risk youth’. All he does is teach obsolete weaponry skills. You wouldn’t think people would appreciate someone teaching kids _how_ to shoot someone.

Katie found out about the invitation, as well, because she’s reaching Natasha levels of awareness, and now he has to go, or so she says. And she told Natasha, too. So he really does have to go. They’ve even dragged him out to buy a tux. Clint has never worn a tux in his lift, but jeans and a t-shirt are not appropriate for a gala, or that’s what they tell him.

There is one bright spot in the misery… well, three, because the invitation says he’s getting a free five course dinner and an open bar – he just hopes the portions will be person-sized rather than those tiny gourmet things they show on the Food Channel. The main saving grace, though, is that his invitation is a plus one, which means he doesn’t have to face this alone.

Except…

Except Natasha’s out of town that weekend with Sam, Kate’s got prior commitments, and Clint’s stuck with the knowledge that he doesn’t have as many friends as he thought.

Lucky doesn’t count in this situation, which sucks. Lucky would be the best plus one.

He’s currently twirling around begrudgingly while Kate and Nat heckle him. He’s looking at the reflection of his ass in the mirror – it actually looks pretty good in these pants – when Nat makes the suggestion.

“You’re missing the obvious solution,” she says, standing up to smooth the fabric of the jacket across his shoulders where he’s rucked it up.

“Don’t go?” he tries, but the words are only met by stony glances from both his friends.

“Ask James,” she says.

Clint’s eyebrows fly up so fast he’s in danger of losing them to the atmosphere.

“Ooh, yes!” Kate agrees, because as much as Clint loves her, he knows she is hell spawn. “Hot James the roommate?”

“Hot James the roommate,” Natasha confirms, giving Clint an amused look.

“So, he’s actually hot? I thought Clint was exaggerating. He won’t let me meet him.”

“Because you’d call him ‘Hot James the roommate’,” Clint says; he doesn’t think that’s unreasonable. He neglects to mention that Kate has actually met him, way back, when he was still ‘the asshole that probably works for the mob’. Luckily they hadn’t spoken. Clint’s been trying to keep it that way. “Anyway.” He gives his best Sean Connery impression. “Do I look like James Bond?”

Natasha squints at him.

“You could be Daniel Craig’s annoying younger brother,” she says after a moment.

“Eh… I’ll take it,” Clint says with a shrug, which rucks up the shoulders all over again. The problem is the damn jacket’s too tight in the arms. Can’t they make a jacket that fits real people? He glances at himself in the mirror again. It’s not so different from being in the carnival again, all the glitz and glamour to cover the grime.

Hey, he might be able to pull this off.

“Are you going to ask him?” Kate asks.

Aw, Clint thought he’d distracted them.

“Who?” he asks, playing dumb for just another moment of freedom.

“James,” Natasha says. She’s losing her patience; he can tell by that glint in her eye.

“Why? He wouldn’t say yes.”

He doesn’t want to know when Natasha and Katie became so in tune that they actually roll their eyes in sync. No, he does not. Some mysteries are best left well alone.

“You don’t know that,” Kate protests, pouting a little.

“We’re roommates,” Clint says. “It’d be weird.”

“You went clubbing together,” Natasha points out.

“He ditched me and went home with someone else.”

“You don’t know that,” Natasha says this time. “You never asked.”

“It was a club. He was gone half the night; it doesn’t take a genius to guess what happened.”

“He was going to make you dinner,” Kate adds.

“He never showed up and then I burnt the apartment down,” Clint says with a wince, that wasn’t his finest hour.

“Just ask him,” Kate tells him, poking him furiously in the chest. Clint looks desperately at Nat for some moral support, he shouldn’t have bothered.

“I’m with her,” Natasha says.

“Ask him out,” Kate goes on, poking him again. “Take him home. Find out how bendy he really is… and never tell me anything about it.” She makes a face.

“Bendy?” Natasha asks.

“Hot roommate James does yoga,” Kate supplies before Clint can say something less incriminating. Natasha’s eyes narrow and she glances over Clint’s shoulder.

“We’ll take this one,” she says, gesturing at Clint’s outfit, then pushing him back into the changing rooms. Her face comes very close to his, her eyes narrowed into slits.

“If you don’t ask him, I will.”

*

Bucky’s schedule is all over the place, so there’s really no knowing whether he’ll be in or not at any time of day. Clint still hasn’t worked out what it is he does, but he’s decided to just accept Bucky’s vague response of ‘security’ whenever he asks. Things feel safer that way somehow.

Clint is praying to every god he’s aware of that Bucky will be out as he turns his key in the lock.

_Please please please please._

But Clint’s luck, as ever, is out. When they swing open the door, the TV is on and Bucky is sprawled over the sofa with Lucky laid out on his chest.

Clint smothers the butterflies that stir in his stomach at the sight. There’s a part of his brain that just thinks _home_ and _I want to come back to this every day_. It’s a dangerous thought. It’s a thought that implies permanence and nothing about this situation is permanent. People move apartments all the time; Bucky’s not going to be here forever.

He becomes aware that Kate and Natasha are watching him watching Bucky. There is a dawning understanding on their faces. They know nothing. Clint is fine.

Lucky jumps down and pads over to him eagerly. Lucky always looks at him with the same doggy adoration.

“Good boy,” Clint says, stroking his head. Lucky cocks his head to one side, his tongue lolling out. Clint grins at him before he notices Natasha is speaking.

“Maybe James will be able to help,” she says. Clint goes tense and Lucky gives a small whine as Bucky twists his head around to look at them.

“Help with what?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Clint says quickly.

“He needs a date,” Kate says, going over to flop into his chair. “To this fancy party he’s been invited to. We had to buy him a tux and everything.”

Bucky sits up and turns to look directly at Clint, who just holds up the tuxedo bag like it’s an explanation.

“I’m sure he can find a date,” Bucky says slowly. His eyes are glued to Clint’s face, like he’s looking for something specific.

“He’s hopeless,” Natasha says, backed up by Kate’s hum of agreement. “You should hear his chat up lines.”

“I really should,” Bucky agrees. Clint can see Kate’s beaming face out of the corner of his eye.

“They’re not that bad,” Clint says.

“You once asked a guy when his next boxing match was – because he was a knock-out,” Kate adds. Clint doesn’t think that deserves quite as much eye-roll as she’s giving it. Bucky doesn’t seem to think it’s that bad from the way the corners of his lips are quirking up just that little bit more.

“Hey! That worked!” he tells them.

“It got you a one night stand,” Natasha says. “Let’s face it: you’re not going to get a date to a black tie event with your usual attempts at flirting, which is why you should at least be asking James if he can help.”

Clint gives Lucky one last resigned pat on the head and straightens up.

“Uh... yeah,” he says, eloquent as always. “Can you?” He sees Kate drop her head into her hands.

“Help you get a date?” Bucky says. “I don’t know a lot of-“

“Or you could do it,” Clint says. Bucky blinks and stares at him. “Come with me.” Silence. “As my plus one… if you want.”

The smile that spreads over Bucky’s face is a wonder to behold.

“Sure. I think I can dig out a tux from somewhere,” Bucky tells him, his voice low and casual, but his eyes intense. “When is it?”

“The seventeenth? I know you’re busy. You don’t have to-“

“I’d love to,” Bucky says.

Clint stares at him. Bucky stares back. Clint is dimly aware of Natasha and Kate leaving, but his head is still spinning from the face that it worked. He’s got a date. With Bucky. Sort of. He’s still like 90% sure that his roommate is dating the Winter Soldier. A few times in the last month he’s caught sight of the superhero sneaking out of, or into, the window to Bucky’s room. But maybe they’re… not exclusive? Clint can dream.

It’s two hours later when Bucky pokes his head out of his room, customary frown back in place. He waits for Clint to look at him before talking.

“This thing we’re going to, when is it again?”

“The seventeenth, at seven thirty,” Clint says. “It’s really high class. Five course meal and shit.”

Bucky’s frown deepens.

“What event is it for?” he asks.

“Uh… the…” Clint racks his brain. “The Voices of the City Gala or something. I don’t really know. The Avengers are supposed to be there. Why? Is there a problem? Are you already going with-“

“No,” Bucky says, but he sounds hesitant. “It’s fine.”

His door closes again.

Huh.

*

Steve thinks it’s hilarious. So does Sam. Tony just blinks when he finds out, although the peals of laughter coming from the corridor after he leaves aren’t very subtle.

Bucky tries to get out of it, but no, the Winter Soldier must attend the gala. Bucky tries to make the point that Sam doesn’t have to go, but apparently having coincidentally booked a holiday with your girlfriend over the gala weekend, _completely_ unintentionally, is allowed.

“You’ll have to tell Clint you can’t make it,” Steve says.

“I can’t cancel on him again!” Bucky says, groaning. “That would be three times. He’d never agree to another date after that.”

“I don’t know what else you can do, Bucky,” Steve says.

“But I was finally _getting_ somewhere. I walked around in a towel last week and he walked into a door.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose.

“He spent twenty five minutes in the shower after the yoga thing.”

“Ugh… Bucky, I don’t need to-“ Steve says as Sam throws a cushion at Bucky’s head.

“We’re in the twenty-first century. Being queer isn’t illegal anymore. Hell, they hold a fucking parade for it and somehow I’m doing worse with the fellas than when it was illegal!”

“If you and Clint are meant to be, it’ll happen,” Steve says with his earnest expression.

“Screw ‘meant to be’,” Buck tells him. “I’m gonna make it happen. I’m gonna wine him and dine him and make him scream my name.”

“Too much information, Barnes,” Sam groans. “I know the guy… come on.”

“ I just don’t think this is your chance,” Steve says, interrupting Sam’s exaggerated sounds of disgust. “It’s not like you can go to the gala as both the Winter Soldier _and_ Bucky Barnes.”

“Why not?” Bucky feels the idea dawn upon him like a full angelic chorus. “Why not?”

“Bucky, no.”

*

Clint’s jaw literally drops when he sees Bucky. Damn but the guy cleans up well. The tux fits him perfectly, emphasising the size of his shoulders and practically molesting his figure. Clint’s mouth is dry, his brain is fuzzy, and he wants to peel that thing off Bucky’s body with his teeth.

Bucky whistles back at him, his eyes raking up and down Clint’s body with an intensity that Clint can feel almost like a physical touch.

“Look at you, dressed to the nines. Damn, but ain’t that a sight to see,” Bucky says, his voice practically a purr.

“Don’t think anyone’s going to be looking at me when I’m standing next to you,” Clint says, tugging at his collar. The bow tie is too tight, he can feel it constrict every time he swallows, and he’s sure it’s off centre, but every time he moves it, he makes it worse.

Bucky steps in close and Clint can smell his aftershave. It’s deep, sort of earthy, and it makes Clint’s throat tighten, not to mention his pants.

Bucky’s hand tugs Clint’s away from his neck gently, and he readjusts Clint’s tie, settling it into place.

“You look a million bucks,” he says, giving Clint a slow, lazy smile. They’re so close they could kiss. Clint’s eyes are drawn to Bucky’s mouth. They could just blow this whole evening off. Stay in, get a pizza. Eat it naked in bed.

Kate’s got Lucky tonight because she’d been convinced of the horrors dog drool and fur would do to their tuxes, so there’s no one to interrupt the moment. It builds, like the tension in a bowstring as you draw it back.

“We should get going,” Bucky says.

“We could be late,” Clint says. It’s an offer – clearly an offer. Bucky actually looks tempted. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips.

“Got to get there early to scout out the best places to get snacks,” Bucky says.

And how can Clint argue with that?

*

This was a terrible idea. Clint feels like a sore thumb. Everyone else is arriving in limos and fancy sports cars. They step into the room like they were born in formalwear. So far, Clint’s been asked about his career three times and about people he’s never met more than a dozen.

He’s shifting from foot to foot and eyeing the exits.

“Free food,” he reminds himself, getting a dirty look from a woman who passes him by. He resists the urge to flip the bird at her back.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “I’ve got to go… to the bathroom. I’ll see you in a bit, alright.”

Clint wants to grab his arm and stop him from leaving. But the guy needs a leak and Clint’s a grown ass man. He can survive.

He makes himself nod instead and takes a sip of the champagne that tastes better than any champagne he’s ever tasted before. This must be what champagne’s supposed to taste like. Maybe the stuff he’s drunk before actually was fizzy piss.

Bucky pats his shoulder once, then disappears into the crowd. Clint’s not even sure where the toilets are in this place and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask.

Men with booming voices and over-stretched cummerbunds greet glittering giraffe-like ladies with kisses to the cheek and exclamations of ‘Dear Contessa, it’s been too long’. He swears he overhears someone talking about their yacht in Europe.

Without Bucky as a lifeline, he’s drowning in a sea of people.

Then the wave of whispers begins. It starts from the doorway and spreads outwards and people seem to move towards it.

“The Avengers,” Clint can just about make out, and he turns.

He’s seen the Avengers before, fighting on the streets of New York, on the TV, too. He’s had two of them in his apartment, for fuck’s sake, but he still finds himself weaving through the crowd to get a glimpse.

They’re all in uniform – of course, their real identities are a closely kept secret – and above the heads of the crowd you can see Cap and Thor, and Iron Man’s shining helmet. Captain Marvel and Ant-Man are there too, although the Wasp appears to be missing, or maybe she’s just her tiny self right now.

And there’s the Winter Soldier, just behind Cap’s right shoulder, looking about as happy to be there as Clint is. Not that you can see any part of his face behind the mask and goggles – how’s he going to eat, Clint wonders – but his gait and the tension across his shoulders are clear, as is the way his head swivels to assess the room.

Cap turns his head and leans in to whisper something to him and, subtly, so that Clint’s not sure anyone else sees it, the Winter Soldier darts out a metal finger and pokes Cap in the side.

Clint grins. They are just people, after all.

He looks around for Bucky, who should be back soon, shouldn’t he? Although… this place is huge, who knows where the restrooms are. You might have to walk a mile to get there.

There’s still no sign of Bucky, and when he looks back, the Winter Soldier is staring right at him. Fuck. Clint raises his hand and wiggles his fingers. The Winter Soldier looks away quickly.

Right. Probably not appropriate. Clint doesn’t even know the guy. Stop waving at superheroes, Clint.

Seriously, where’s Bucky?

Clint’s had some bad dates before, but he’s never actually had a date climb out the bathroom window. Damn. The guy seems able to handle his presence when they live together. You wouldn’t think a nice suit and a string quartet would make it that much harder to bear, would you?

Maybe he just hates the music. It is pretty insipid. Or maybe he bumped into some non-disastrous person in the corridor and they got talking.

“Mr Barton?” Clint jumps at the sound of his name. He turns to see Tony Stark standing behind him in a red and gold suit. Next to him is a short, dark-haired woman who looks like she’s stepped right off a catwalk and into the party. “Fancy seeing you here! How’s your furry friend?”

“My what? Lucky?” Clint asks. How does Tony Stark know about his dog?

“No, the other one,” Tony says. “Equally silly name. Tiny, fluffy, befriended a certain ex-soviet assassin.”

“Mr Fluffles?” Clint says. Stark snaps his fingers.

“That’s the one. No worse for his adventures, I hope.”

“Mr Fluffles?” Stark’s companion says, and Clint is once again aware that he does not shape up to the rest of these high class types.

“Uh…”

“Where are my manners?” Stark asks of no one in particular. “Good thing Cap isn’t nearby or I’d be getting his disappointed face. Clint Barton, this is the ravishing Janet Van Dyne. Jan, this is Clint Barton, who once threw himself in front of a Doombot in the name of duty and canine protection.”

“Very dashing of you,” Ms Van Dyne says. The name rings a bell in Clint’s mind. He feels like he’s heard Kate mention her. She holds out a hand.

Clint remembers what he had thought before, about the similarities between this and his old life. It’s just a different sort of carnival, after all. Put on a show; play the part.

He bows deeply over her hand and brings it to his lips with a wink.

“I try,” he says. She laughs, delighted, and Stark’s looking smug, so Clint guesses he’s doing okay.

“Mr Barton also selflessly volunteers his time to help at-risk young people in Brooklyn,” Stark continues. Clint starts and looks at him.

“I teach archery,” Clint says, tugging at the cuff of his jacket. “They seem to like it.”

“Archery? Oh, that sounds like fun,” Ms Van Dyne says. “I’ve always wanted to try.”

“Well, we have classes every weekday,” Clint tells her. “If you want to have a go, just pop in.”

“Maybe I will.” She grins brightly, rocking up onto the balls of her feet and Clint can’t help but smile back. It’s like being hit in the face with sunshine.

“What do you do?” Clint asks, because you’re supposed to show interest, right? Her eyebrows rise a little and - aw, shit. He’s supposed to know already, isn’t he? She’s gonna be famous.

“I design clothes,” she says. “I actually designed the suit you’re wearing.”

Clint looks down at the dark lines of his suit. It looks almost purple where it catches the light. All he knows is it cost stupid money and both Nat and Katie had insisted on buying it for him because it was worth it to see him in something that didn’t have holes for once.

“Right,” he says, a little stuck. He kind of remembers now. Katie had mentioned Van Dyne. “My friend picked this. I think… she likes your purses?” Ms Van Dyne beams at him again.

“Your friend has good taste,” Stark says. “Is she with you tonight, Mr Barton?” There’s an undercurrent of humour to his tone that makes Clint frown and his back straighten.

“I hope you’re on your best behaviour, Mr Stark,” says a resounding voice from his left and Clint turns to see Captain America standing there looking a lot cleaner and more like his posters than the last time Clint saw him, patching up Bucky in the cramped bathroom of his apartment.

“I’m always on my best behaviour, Cap,” Stark says with a dazzling smile. “I was just inquiring as to whether Mr Barton was here alone. I have a whole host of people I’m sure would love to meet him.”

“I’m sure,” Captain America says in a voice that implies he knows exactly what Stark is up to. Clint has no idea what either of them is talking about.

“Actually I am… here with someone,” Clint says. “A friend.”

“A _friend_,” Stark says, looking like this is the juiciest gossip he’s ever heard. “How interesting. Are they a good friend?”

Clint flails for an answer because Captain America knows Bucky and he definitely knows the Winter Soldier, and the Winter Soldier sometimes creeps out of Bucky’s room in the middle of the night.

“Leave him alone, Tony,” Ms Van Dyne says, elbowing Stark in the ribs.

“Ouch, that stings,” Tony says, rubbing at his side. Cap sighs heavily as Ms Van Dyne chuckles.

“It’s none of our business,” she says.

“True, true,” Stark says airily. “I was just wondering if we could meet his friend. Where have you hidden them?”

Clint looks around. There’s still no sign of Bucky. Small clusters of people have formed around the Avengers, who seem to be coping with the attention in different ways.

The Winter Soldier is looking towards him – them – and Clint gulps. There’s no way he doesn’t know. Clint’s here with Bucky. He’s dead. He’s gonna die. The Winter Soldier knows where he lives.

His face must look a picture when he turns back to the others. Stark’s eyebrows rise.

“I don’t know where Bucky’s got to, actually,” Clint says hurriedly. “Perhaps I should-“

“Why are you looking so spooked, Robin Hood?” Tony asks, twisting to look in the direction Clint’s been staring in. He looks back, frowning. It’s a serious sort of frown, not one of confusion. It suggests that Stark is genuinely not happy. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who has a problem with our Winter Soldier.” Three pairs of eyes are watching him intently.

“No!” Clint says quickly. “I mean… I think he’s great. He’s hot- I mean he’s _not_ a problem for me. I just think… maybe he’s got a problem with me. He keeps staring at me.”

Clint risks a glance at Captain America, who seems to be holding back a smile, or maybe a laugh.

Stark doesn’t have as much restraint. He lets out a surprised bark of laughter.

“What’s funny about that?” Clint asks, feeling his hackles rise. “He told me he’d kill me once, now he’s staring at me. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know about it.”

“He told you…?” Ms Van Dyne says, her eyes widen for a second before narrowing and turning towards the Winter Soldier with a huff. She pats Clint’s arm gently.

“He doesn’t want to kill you,” she says. “He’s just a little rusty at all this.”

_All what? _Clint wants to ask, but he doesn’t. It feels like everyone in this conversation knows what’s going on except him. It’s not a fun feeling.

“I should… go find Bucky,” he says, backing away.

“No,” Captain America says sharply. “I mean. I haven’t had a chance to ask you what you do.”

“I need to find Bucky,” Clint says again, then turns and runs. Well… walks very quickly.

He allows himself a quick glance back when he feels like he’s far enough away. Captain America has gone over to the Winter Soldier and is leaning in to whisper in his ear.

It would be really arrogant to assume they’re talking about him, wouldn’t it? Clint shakes it off and looks around at the press of people in dismay. Trying to find Bucky’s going to be almost impossible.

*

He doesn’t find Bucky. He does learn that he’s not the only one of the hoi polloi invited tonight; he meets a young woman who teaches English as a second language in evening classes, an elderly black woman who has been running a homeless shelter for over forty years, and a man who trains therapy dogs, as well as two lawyers who do pro bono work in Hell’s Kitchen.

In the end, Bucky finds him, cheeks full of canapes talking to the guy who trains the service dogs.

“Clint!” Bucky calls, pushing between people to wrap an arm around Clint’s shoulders. “Sorry, I got cornered by some people who wouldn’t stop talking and then I couldn’t find you.”

Clint feels some of the tension he hadn’t realised was filling him drain away. Bucky’s here. He appears to want to be here. A quick glance around the room seems to indicate that the Winter Soldier is not lurking anywhere nearby, although Captain America is giving them an odd sidelong glance.

Clint tries to smile. Then remembers that his cheeks are hamster-full of the little steak pie things they’ve been marching past him and aborts the move before pastry sprays everywhere.

Why does he ever leave the apartment?

He swallows quickly – probably too quickly because he can feel the food moving down his throat.

“It’s okay. I met Martin,” he gestures to service-dog guy, grateful he remembers his name.

“Clint was just telling me about his archery classes,” Martin says. “It sounds fascinating. I will admit, I always loved Robin Hood when I was a boy. A real hero.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He straightens a bit, and Clint knows Bucky’s got muscles, but there’s something about the way he’s standing that really shows them off. Maybe it’s the tux. He should wear a tux more often. On the other hand, if wearing a tux means they have to come to events like this, perhaps that isn’t really going to work out. “Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says, offering his hand. His other arm drops to a more polite, but somehow ten times more sensitive position on Clint’s back.

“Martin Doherty,” Martin replies.

They shake hands and Martin winces just slightly. Bucky’s face is disturbingly blank.

“Where can I get me some of those tartlet things?” Bucky asks, a smile dropping onto his face as he looks at Clint. “I’ve been trying to for ages but I seem to keep missin’ 'em.”

Clint looks around and finds a server.

“I think there are some over there,” he says, gesturing.

“I should be going,” Martin says. “Great to meet you, Clint. Perhaps I’ll take you up on those archery lessons sometime.”

“You know where to find me,” Clint says. “Maybe I’ll come to see your dogs.”

“Dogs?” Bucky says. “Awesome. I love dogs.”

“Of course you do,” Martin says. “I really should go. I think I see an old friend.” Then he’s gone.

“Huh…” Clint says, but shrugs it off. “Now… snacks.”

They find five different servers with eight different kinds of canape and take great pleasure in trying them all.

One is really spicy, but Clint’s used to Thai food, so he manages to swallow it down without too much bother. Bucky splutters a bit, though.

“You okay?” Clint asks, patting Bucky on the back.

“Yeah, it’s just… wasn’t expecting that. Food’s changed a bit since-“ Bucky looks at him. “I never really ate spicy food as a child, so I’m not used to it.” Clint grins.

“Millie, back at the circus, when I was a kid, used to make this goat stew. It’d blow your head right off.”

“Circus?” Bucky asks, looking surprised. Oh, right, Clint hasn’t told him about that yet.

“When I was-“ His story is cut off by a strange _whir clunk_ sound and they both turn around to see Iron Man. Clint stares.

He’s seen Iron Man, Tony Stark’s bodyguard and Avenger, before, flying over the city or on TV, but he’s never been this close.

The armour’s actually pretty cool and Iron Man is taller than he thought. Taller than Clint.

“Hi,” Clint says, unable to think of something more interesting.

“Hey,” Iron Man says. “Clint, right? The guy with the Pomeranian?”

“That’s me,” Clint agrees. “Iron Man, right? The guy with the metal rocket suit.”

“Technically it’s repulsor tech,” Iron man says. “Tony would kill me if I didn’t correct you on that.” Clint hears Bucky huff. It sounds a bit like a laugh that’s been turned into a cough. “But yeah, that’s me: guy in a tin can, trying to save the world.” Clint grins. “Thought I’d come say hi.”

The smile fades from Clint’s face and he blinks uncertainly. Why would Iron Man think he should say hi to Clint? He turns to give Bucky a quick glance, but Bucky’s face has gone all blank and glary again. That’s no help at all.

“Cool,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. “Iron Man wants to meet me. That’s cool.”

“We’ve got to assemble for the speeches in a minute,” Iron Man says. His voice sounds a little pointed, though it’s hard to tell with the modulation making it all robotic. “You should get a front row spot.”

“Um…” Clint says, not sure that’s a good idea. The Winter Soldier’s going to be _right there_. Clint probably shouldn’t tempt fate like that.

“Hope you don’t mind if I borrow your boy here,” Iron Man jerks a thumb at Bucky. “Got to check with him on a security matter.” That is… weird. Clint turns to look at Bucky again.

“Sometimes I do security work for Stark,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Iron Man agrees. “So, can I borrow him? I’ll try to keep him in one piece for you.” Iron Man reaches out to pat Bucky on the shoulder. There’s a strange clunk sound made by the armour as they connect.

“I’m a bit busy right now,” Bucky says, pulling away and scowling. Clint feels kind of fizzy at the idea that Bucky would blow off an Avenger to keep shooting the shit with him.

“It’s kind of important,” Iron Man says.

“Isn’t it always?”

“Look, man. The sooner we get it done, the sooner it’s over. You think I asked for this gig? They’ve got a three Michelin star chef. I see you stuffing all those mini quiches in your mouth. I can’t eat in this thing.”

It’s a weird moment because Clint’s pretty sure superheroes aren’t supposed to say those sorts of things in public. But if Bucky’s done security work for Stark Industries and Iron Man is Stark’s bodyguard, it makes sense that they know each other quite well.

“That sucks, man,” Clint says. “Can you drink?”

“If you get me a straw,” Iron Man says.

“But what if you just really want a doughnut?” Clint asks. Iron Man turns to him. It’s a full on thing where the whole of his mask just swivels around.

“Please do not mention doughnuts to me,” he says, before turning back. “Look, Barnes. You’ve got to come. I swear, it’ll be over quick.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Bucky says. A waiter passes by and he snags another of the steak pie things off his tray and pops it into his mouth, grinning. “But fine.” He chews obnoxiously. It shouldn’t be attractive – chewing isn’t an attractive look on anyone – but Clint’s heart’s all fucking fluttery because the guy’s an _asshole_.

Clint wants to marry him.

“Hold my drink. You can finish it if you want,” Bucky says, handing Clint his glass. “I’m really sorry about this. I’ll be back as soon as I can, just… I swear I’ll be back, alright?” Clint nods dumbly, then watches as Bucky and Iron Man walk away. Clint can hear Iron Man speaking.

“Dick move, Barnes.”

“Bite me, tin can.”

Clint downs both glasses of the too good, too fizzy champagne, ignoring a dirty look from a man across the way. He grins back, showing all his teeth.

He winds up standing alone, a glass in each hand, for a minute or so before the murmurs of the crowd indicate that something’s happening. A convenient side table catches his eye, so Clint dumps the glasses and heads towards the source of the murmuring.

Apparently there are going to be speeches. He remembers Iron Man saying something about that. Tony Stark, Captain America, the mayor, a couple of other people Clint doesn’t recognise. Great.

The Avengers are arranged at the back of the dais, trying to look interested. Clint finds himself watching the Winter Soldier. Clint’s sort of wedged in the corner, near the stage, but round the side, so he’s sort of looking at everything from behind.

He does have a damn good view of the Avengers’ asses.

And he’s got to say, leather really works for the Winter Soldier.

…and Tony Stark spent far too much time on the ass of a metal suit. Seriously. The guy has issues.

Stark’s up front now. Clint’s not really listening, but the guy at least has energy, and a voice that stands out. It’s when the mayor comes forwards that everything really starts to become yawn town.

Hearing aids aren’t really designed for large crowds. As long as one thing is distinct he can usually make out enough to get alone, but the mayor’s voice seems designed to blend in. Clint can maybe make out one word in five if he tries real hard, but honestly that’s just too much effort. Especially when there are people talking much nearer whose voices really do stand out.

“It’s offensive,” a woman is saying to his right. Clint can already tell from her tone of voice that whatever she says next will be ten times more offensive than the thing she’s complaining about. “The man’s a murderer, a terrorist. He should be locked up, not paraded around in public.”

Clint wonders for a second who she’s talking about, then he notices the way the Winter Soldier’ metal hand has balled into a fist.

“Of course, he claims he was brainwashed, doesn’t he? But why wouldn’t he? They all turn in the end. I bet he was hailing Hydra with the rest of them. Then it all comes crashing down and suddenly he’s there with his cap out, tail between his legs, claiming that he was _tortured_ and running around like he’s a hero. It’s nonsense, you know. No one can force you to kill people.”

“I know,” another person agrees. “The whole thing’s convenient, if you ask me.”

“I’m pretty sure nobody did,” Clint says.

“Excuse me?” the woman who spoke first says, her voice even more stringent than it had been before. Clint sighs. He had promised Nat he wouldn’t make trouble, but his date has abandoned him, a guy he didn’t vote for is droning on about the power of community, and someone’s talking shit about a national hero.

Does he really have a choice?

The woman has to look upwards to look down her nose at him.

“This is a private conversation,” she hisses.

“Yeah, no. It’s a public conversation, ‘cause you’re having it in public. I might not have a university degree, but I do know what private means.”

“Yes, well-“

“And I think that if I gotta overhear the shit you’re talking, I should have a chance to give you my opinion.”

“We are supposed to be listening to-“ the man says.

“Funny how you didn’t care about that a few minutes ago. Weird. Almost hypocritical. Yeah, I know that word too,” Clint says, smiling savagely.

“Young man-“

“You see, the way _I_ see it, is that it’s really easy to say shit like that while you’re sipping champagne in your fancy clothes waiting for some guy to shut up so you can eat your overpriced fancy food, but maybe – my friends are always telling me this, they’d laugh if they heard me now – but maybe you’d like to think before you speak.”

“I hardly think-“

“Well that much is obvious,” Clint cuts in. “And maybe you’ve been lucky enough in your life that you’ve never been forced to do something you didn’t want to do because you were scared or in pain or just plain didn’t have another choice. Good for you. But I would have thought you’d understand what torture means. Spoiler alert: it’s _fucking torture_. So, rather than being a snide, victim blaming asshat, perhaps you could manage to show a little respect for a guy who endured literal torture, was a prisoner of war, has to put up with small-minded commentary from the peanut gallery and still manages to save the fucking city. Hell, I’m impressed that he gets out of bed in the morning. But he does that, then he goes out and fights monsters – he’s personally saved my life on two separate occasions – so that idiots like you can go about your everyday lives without worrying about a doombot burning you to death.”

This is a little out of control. Clint’s not sure he’s ever said that much at once in his life. He becomes aware that everyone in the vicinity is looking at him, including the Avengers at his end of the dais. Including the Winter Soldier.

“Uh… so that,” he concludes, reaching up to scratch the back of his head.

“If you’ve quite finished,” the woman says. Clint considers her for a moment.

“No. You know what? One more thing: Fuck. You.” He signs the words as he says them, because he needs the emphasis.

The timing of the applause is startling and Clint’s head snaps around, because he’s pretty sure you don’t get applause for cussing someone out at a posh place like this.

Right. Good. The clapping’s not for him. The older lady he met earlier is being presented with some sort of award. Clint joins in the applause as Captain America shakes her hand and she kisses him on the cheek, saying something that makes the Captain blush a furious shade of fuchsia.

When Clint glances back, the asshats have disappeared into the crowd but a quick glance at the stage shows that the Winter Soldier is still looking right at him.

Clint gives him a weak smile and scratches his ear, making his hearing aid shift a little so he has to adjust it. He stares helplessly at the Winter Soldier and the Winter Soldier stares back.

How do you break eye contact with someone?

Or maybe the Winter Soldier isn’t even looking at him. It’s hard to tell behind the goggles. He might be staring at something behind Clint. Or perhaps he’s just staring into space. Clint should look away, but his head appears to be stuck.

Well, Clint guesses there are worse things to be stuck looking at for the rest of your life.

Finally, the Winter Soldier nods once, slowly, and the tension breaks. Clint can move his head again.

There’s another polite drizzle of applause before the music starts up again and everyone drifts away.

Clint’s about to join the crowd – maybe try to work out where Bucky’s got to this time – when a large red gloved hand comes down onto his shoulder.

He turns to look up a long line of blue to an unforgettable square jawline.

“Clint,” says Captain America. And sure, Clint’s still got that OMG vibe of Captain America knowing his name, but there’s also the sick, bowling ball in the stomach feeling of an authority figure stopping him. It’s an ‘oh shit what did I do?’ moment and Captain America’s about to tell him off.

What is Clint’s life? It’s like one of his childhood nightmares come to life.

“Hi Cap,” Clint says. “Is everything okay?”

Everyone around them is starting to move towards the dining room. Aw… food.

“Yes, I just wanted to say thank you.”

Clint’s world reboots.

“For standing up for the Winter Soldier. Most people wouldn’t have stepped in.”

“They were being dicks,” Clint says with a shrug. “I just opened my mouth; I’m not good at keeping it shut, ask anyone.” Captain America smiles.

“You’re a good man,” Cap says. He says it in such a Captain America way; his voice is earnest and resolute. This has gone from one of Clint’s childhood nightmares to one of his childhood fantasies so fast he’s going to get emotional whiplash.

“I’m just a guy who can’t stop insulting people,” Clint says.

“If you say so,” Captain America claps him on the back. “Anyway, it looks like your date’s come to steal you back.” Clint turns to look, but before he can get more than a glimpse of Bucky hurrying towards him, adjusting his tie, Captain America grabs his shoulder again and turns him back around.

“Clint!” he says, hurriedly, his eyes darting around, looking from Clint to over his shoulder and back. He’s wiggling his right hand strangely. “I almost forgot to say… uh…” He wiggles his right hand again. Is he trying sign language? If he is, then he isn’t very good at it.

“Are you alright?” Clint asks. Is that one of the symptoms of a stroke? Can Captain America have a stroke? He is one hundred years old or something. Should Clint call a doctor?

Aw, fuck. Has Clint killed Captain America?

“Yes, I’m fine. I just…” Cap looks down at his hand as though he’s seeing it for the first time. “Sometimes I… get cramps from… the way I hold the shield.”

“Really?”

“Yes… terrible cramps… in my _hand_.” Cap says.

“Oh shit,” Clint hears from behind him and he twists around to see Bucky fiddling with the wrist watch he always wears on his left arm.

“Right. Bucky. Good to see you,” Captain America says. “I’ll just leave you to find your table for dinner. See you later.” He turns and walks away.

“Wait,” Clint calls after him, but he doesn’t stop. “What was it you…?”

“What’s the problem?” Bucky asks, stepping up to Clint’s side.

“He said he forgot to tell me something, but I think he forgot again,” Clint says, a bit lost. Captain America is really weird, who knew?

“Well, he is getting on a bit,” Bucky says. “They say memory’s the first thing to go.”

Clint sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, but he blinks and it’s gone. He was imagining things anyway. There’s no way Captain America just flipped his date off.

*

The meal is… well, it’s very pretty.

“What do you think the grey stuff is?” Bucky asks.

“Looks like grouting,” Clint replies. It smells pungent, too. He tries a bit and considers it. It’s not terrible. Well, it’s pretty nice, but he doesn’t think it’s anything special.

“So… uh,” Bucky pauses. He’s looking very carefully at his plate, not at Clint. “The Avengers. You’re a fan?”

Clint frowns a little. It’s a strange conversation opener, but he supposes it’s sort of relevant.

“I guess,” he says. “I mean, I’m pretty sure if they didn’t exist I’d be extra dead by now, so that’s cool.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Tell me about it,” he adds in almost a mutter. Clint opens his mouth to ask what that’s supposed to mean, but Bucky’s been living with him for months now. He knows what Clint’s like.

“And who doesn’t like Captain America?” Clint continues. “I mean, I grew up with the comics, you know.”

Bucky’s mouth twists into a bittersweet smile.

“Yeah, who doesn’t like Cap,” he agrees. “And the others?”

“I guess,” Clint shrugs. It’s probably bad form to tell your date you find other people attractive, especially when one of them is his boyfriend. “I mean, I don’t know that much about them. It’s weird...” He looks around, over at where the Avengers are dotted around the tables. Sure enough, Captain America and Captain Marvel are both looking towards him, as is Iron Man. The Winter Soldier is nowhere to be seen. Probably because he can’t eat with his mask on. Although Iron Man apparently still has to be out here, poor guy.

“What’s weird?” Bucky asks. He’s looking at Clint directly all of a sudden.

“They keep talking to me,” Clint says. “I know: that’s what they’re here for, but it’s like they’re specifically coming to talk to me.” He shrugs again and finishes off the first course. “Also… this sounds paranoid, but I think they’re watching me.”

Bucky scowls, then sweeps a look around the room.

“But that’s stupid,” Clint continues. “There’s no reason for them to talk to me.” They’re probably talking to everyone, it’s just that Clint’s catching them at the wrong times. And there’s the thing where he made a fool of himself with the whole Winter Soldier Defence League speech earlier. “It’s fine. I’m probably imagining things. Or… well, I guess it’s because of… you know.” He looks around at the other people on their table, who are chatting pleasantly to one another. No one’s paying them any attention. “Your… uh… relationship with the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide. Clint’s never seen him surprised before.

“You…” Bucky pauses as the server takes their plates. “You know about that?” he asks, his voice a low whisper.

“Well, yeah,” Clint says. “I mean, I notice things but… you weren’t exactly subtle. I see the Winter Soldier sneaking into your room in the middle of the night. Seems like the obvious conclusion. And you know Captain America.” Clint shrugs.

“I can’t believe you knew this whole time,” Bucky says. “Stevie said you’d be okay with it, but I didn’t-“

“Well, I can’t deny I’m a little disappointed, but why wouldn’t I be okay with it? If it makes you happy.”

“Not sure happy’s the right word for it,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “But it makes me feel like I’m-“

Another server comes to place the second course in front of them and Bucky waits for them to leave before he continues.

“-like I’m doing something worthwhile.”

Clint frowns. He’s never heard anyone talk about their relationship like that before.

“I’m not sure that’s…” he starts ad trails off. “But I’m not exactly an expert in all this. Just make sure you’re in it for the right reasons or whatever.” Bucky nods.

“I’ve done a lot of stuff in my life I’m not proud of,” Bucky says. “I just feel like this is… the answer to that. I can’t undo what I did, but maybe I can, in some small way, atone for it.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Clint says slowly. Is Bucky implying that his relationship with the Winter Soldier is some sort of punishment?

“You sound like Steve,” Bucky says with a small smile. “It wasn’t your fault, Buck. You’ve got nothing to feel sorry for.”

“Uh,” Clint says, helping himself to a mouthful of what he thinks is shrimp. It looks vaguely shrimp-like. “So, Steve doesn’t approve?”

“No, he approves,” Bucky says. “He knows I need to do this. It’s more like he’s worried about my mental state.”

“Because you’re dating the Winter Soldier?” asks Clint, keeping his voice as hushed as he can. Bucky stares at him.

“Because I’m _what_?” he asks.

“You just said-“ Clint starts.

That, of course, is the second when all the windows blow in.

Glass explodes across the room and Clint ducks instinctively, wrapping his arms over his head as a sound – so low it’s almost a sensation rather than a sound, booming through his rib cage – hits the room, sending his hearing aids crazy.

He can feel the pain of a dozen tiny cuts down his left arm as well as the pain in his ears, as the waterfall of glass hits.

When it seems like all the glass has hit the ground, he risks glancing up and everything is dark. At first Clint thinks that it’s because the lights have blown, but then his eyes focus properly, a lot closer than he had thought, on folds of dark material and strands of hair

“Bucky?” he asks.

“Stay down,” Bucky hisses from his position, curled over Clint’s head.

There is a mechanical whine from above them, followed by a creepy laugh.

“That doesn’t sound like he practised it in front of the mirror at all,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. He could one hundred percent be a better villain than this guy. He wouldn’t even need to try. Also, his evil laugh is fucking chilling.

“Stay down,” Bucky repeats. “And stay out of it.” He pulls away just far enough to glare at Clint. “For once, try not to be a smartass. We’ve got some stuff to clear up and I’d really prefer it if you were alive for me to talk to.”

Clint stares at him a little stupidly. He’s not sure what Bucky’s talking about exactly, but it definitely sounds like he cares whether Clint lives or dies. Clint is aware his standards are low, but it’s nice to hear.

“Clear up?” he asks.

“Yeah, like where you got the idea I was stepping out with the Winter Soldier.”

“_Avengers!_” a voice calls out across the room.

“That cannot be good for his throat,” Clint says. “I think I’ve got a pack of lozenges in my pocket. Should I offer him one?”

“No,” Bucky grinds out through gritted teeth. “Stay down. Stay quiet. We’ll deal with this.” He starts to bundle Clint under the table, then pulls away. Clint can’t help the way his hand reaches out to catch Bucky’s sleeve.

“I can help,” he signs.

“No,” Bucky signs back emphatically. He’s really getting better at that. “You’re a civilian.”

“And what are you?” Clint asks. Bucky pauses, his hands hanging in mid-air limbo.

“Security,” he signs after a moment. “I’ll be right back.” Then he takes Clint’s hand in his, keeping eye contact the whole time, before pressing his lips into the palm of Clint’s hand.

And he’s gone, in a flurry of white table cloth, leaving Clint completely lost as to what his life is right now.

“Fuck,” Clint says with feeling, before becoming aware of the other people huddled under the table with him, terrified faces watching him. “It’s gonna be alright,” Clint says in as reassuring a voice as he can manage. “The Avengers will handle it.”

There’s a resounding crash out in the room, followed by another cackle. Damn, but that’s a stupid laugh. Supervillains are the worst.

He can hear the sounds of a fight, or he thinks he can. Mostly what he can hear are crashes and a mash of voices that he can’t make out clearly.

Then, suddenly, silence. For a second, Clint thinks his hearing aids have shorted out – or the battery’s gone again – but he only charged them this morning and, as the shock of the sudden silence fades, he realises that he can hear the sound of footsteps outside.

“How about a game of musical statues, Avengers?” that ridiculous voice asks. “Well… of a sort. This device plays a sound too high for you to perceive and as long as it’s playing, you can’t move.”

Clint looks around at the people under the table with him. They’re not moving. Their eyes are huge and terrified.

Experimentally, he flexes his fingers.

Huh.

He taps his hearing aid.

There are more footsteps outside.

“Ah, Captain. So much power, and yet you are helpless against such a tiny thing.”

Okay, so the Avengers are also frozen in place.

Everyone’s frozen in place.

Except Clint.

So that’s a thing.

The table cloth is heavy and falls almost to the floor. Clint sticks his head out from under it as slowly as he can. He can see legs between the lines of the tables. Dark ones upright and pacing in heavy boots, red and gold flat on the floor, face down, blue in a wide stance, rigid and still.

Right, yes. The Avengers are definitely neutralised.

But no one seems to be looking his way, which is lucky. Another lucky thing is that high class, five course meals come with a lot of knives. They’re not arrows, but Clint can make do with what he’s got. They’re good quality, at least, well balanced for dinner knives and sharp enough for his purposes.

“Not to forget the other captain,” evil laugh guy continues. Has no one ever told him it’s bad form to monologue? Even if someone did, he probably wouldn’t let them get a word in edgeways.

“Did you drop this?” asks the cackler, and there’s the faint ring of metal brushing against a surface. Clint risks a glance over the top of a table and sees a guy dressed in red and white, wearing a freaking cape, holding Cap’s shield.

Clint just manages to stop himself from saying ‘aw hell no’. You don’t touch the shield. Cap’s gonna kill him.

But in order for Cap to do that, someone’s going to have to take out that device. And since Clint seems to be the only person immune, it looks like it has to be him.

First thing’s first: if he can see the device, he can hit it, so he needs to see it. The guy had said it was small, so he’s probably got it somewhere on his person, But Clint can barely see anything of him from here, which means he can’t stay hiding below eye level. He needs to get up high. He needs a decent vantage point with clear lines of sight, and he needs to get there without being seen.

Red, white and creepy is still monologuing away, but he brought minions, of course. No self-respecting supervillain goes anywhere without minions.

What Clint needs is a distraction while he climbs up the curtain and perches up in that weird decorative alcove on the wall to his left. Luckily throwing knives doesn’t need as much room as a bow.

Distraction. Climb. Locate device. Destroy device. Watch Avengers kick ass.

It’s a solid plan.

The door on the right hand wall is ajar. If he can time it right, then no one should be looking his way.

The knife sails through the air, arcing perfectly through the open door to clatter against the wall outside. The noise resounds around the room and every head – well, every head that is capable of it – turns.

Clint moves, worried with every step that he’s being too loud; he can’t judge volumes too well at the best of times. He scurries the last couple of metres to the curtain, keeping low, and then it’s up, hoping the fittings are strong enough to take his weight.

Every second he climbs, he feels phantom eyes watching him. He’s waiting for the bang and the feel of a bullet punching into his back. It doesn’t come.

He makes it up the curtain and into the alcove and no one seems to have noticed. He doesn’t want to say that these guys are bad at their jobs, but really…

From his new position, he can see how everything is laid out. Iron Man must have crash landed, over to the left. The other Avengers are grouped in a semicircle. They must have been heading for the bad guy when he pushed the button. The guy himself is still standing in front of Captain America, flipping the shield over in his hands. The device is nowhere to be seen. Fuck. He must have put it into a pocket or something. Does his outfit have pockets? The shield moves again and, ugh, the guy has a whole load of belt pouches.

Clint can’t hit them all without drawing attention to himself. It looks like he’s out of luck.

Just as he’s starting to think that, the guy puts the shield down, the pats one of the pouches, like he’s checking where his car keys are. Clint grins. Well… okay then.

It’s been a while since he threw knives with any sort or regularity, but it’s muscle memory and Clint Never. Fucking. Misses.

The blade flies out from him in a streak of silver. It soars between the frozen Avengers, just missing Captain Marvel’s ear, past Captain America’s elbow, and hits the belt pouch, sticking right in.

Clint really hopes he wasn’t just checking his car keys.

Everything happens at once, like someone pressed play. Avengers are flying everywhere. Captain Marvel is punching the guy in the face and mayhem ensues.

Clint punches the air with a ‘yes’ of delight.

Of course, that sort of blows his cover – by which he means the fact that people seem to forget that up is a direction that exists – and a minion decides it would be a good idea to shoot at him.

It’s been a while since someone tried to shoot him. Clint forgot exactly how much adrenaline it causes.

“Did they hire you from the dollar store?” he calls out as the bullet hits the wall a foot from his head, sending up a small cloud of plaster. “‘Cause you can’t shoot for shit. I’m over here, asshole!”

“Clint! Shut up!” Bucky’s voice yells from somewhere, but a quick sweep across the battlefield doesn’t give him any clue as to where. It does however give the lousy shot another chance.

He still doesn’t hit Clint, but he does manage to hit the huge ornamental vase that’s taking up the rest of the space in the alcove, shattering it in such a way that Clint startles and over balances.

The high ground is suddenly looking like not such a good idea. He hears Bucky calling his name, and that’s sort of nice, that he cares enough to call out. Clint twists.

A fall from this height probably won’t kill him, but it is going to hurt a lot if he doesn’t find some way to slow himself down.

If – he – can just – grab –

His hand finally finds purchase on fabric, but speed and friction have other plans. It isn’t like he needs the skin on his palms, right? The twist of his fall, too, means he loses his grip and starts falling again, but a kick from his legs catches the fabric and suddenly he is tangled up in it, falling more slowly, but more awkwardly – head first.

Not a good direction.

The impact with the floor is not as heavy as he’d feared it would be, but it’s not gentle either, his brain still rattles around his skull.

Everything finally stops moving and he’s hanging there, upside down, head on the floor, legs propped against the wall. It’s probably not his best moment, but he’s alive and he saved the day. Go team!

Clint opens his eyes to see an upside down face grinning down at him, or maybe it’s smiling, it’s difficult to tell when the world is swaying and upside down.

“Can’t miss from this range,” a voice hisses and something obscures Clint’s view of Lousy Shot’s ugly upside down head. For a second, he’s grateful, because one more second of looking at that and he thinks he might have thrown up, although that could be the concussion. Then he manages to focus on exactly what it is that’s come between them and he realises that it looks a lot like the barrel of a gun, trained on Clint.

That might be a problem.

“Wanna bet?” Clint’s mouth, not entirely waiting for input from his brain, which is probably for the best right now, to be honest, his brain’s feeling a lot shook up.

Clint wishes he could capture the next moment in slow motion, because it would be great to see the look on the guys face when the Winter Soldier’s metal fist crashes into the side of it. He bets it squished, like those slow motion videos of tennis balls.

The guy drops like a ton of bricks and the metal hand pulls Clint to his feet.

Huh, the Winter Soldier’s wearing a tux now, weird. He was in uniform earlier.

“Are you okay?” The Winter Soldier signs.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Clint says, giving the guy a thumbs up.

“You’re an idiot!” the Winter Soldier signs back. Even with the mask and goggles on, Clint knows he’s scowling.

“Where’s Bucky?” he asks, looking around. Without the freezing device, the Avengers have made quick work of the lackeys. Cap’s shield flies out and the Winter Soldier doesn’t flinch as it flies over their heads to rebound and hit another minion.

Clint frowns because he still can’t see Bucky.

“I heard him earlier; he went to help you,” Clint says. He goes to walk away, but a metal hand holds him fast.

“You need to be checked over by a doctor.”

“I’m good,” Clint says, although the floor is moving independently of the walls, that doesn’t seem right.

“You fell on your head,” the Winter Soldier signs.

Oh… right… That explains it.

“I’ll find Barnes,” he signs and Clint opens his mouth to protest.

“But-“

“I found the dog, I’ll find Barnes,” the Winter Soldier insists. He’s still signing. That’s weird. Maybe it’s the mask? That’s not the only weird thing, though.

“It’s weird that you call your boyfriend Barnes,” Clint says. There’s a heavy sigh from the Winter Soldier and his shoulders slump slightly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he signs.

Clint reaches out to pat his metal shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you guys just need to talk about things.”

The sound the Winter Soldier makes then is part growl, part wail, and he throws his hands up in the air before leading Clint over to someone else and stalking away, signing “I’ll find Barnes” as he turns.

“What did you say to him?” asks Captain Marvel raising an eyebrow.

“I have no idea.”

*

Bucky finds Clint at the hospital. They want to keep him in for observation – and apparently everything’s paid for again, so Clint’s humouring them. Mostly it’s because the nursing staff have caught him every time he’s tried to leave. They are ninjas.

Bucky looks dishevelled in the best way. His bow tie is hanging around his neck; the top buttons of his shirt are undone to reveal a hint of collar bone; his shirt has come untucked and his hair is half out of its bun. He looks rumpled, like maybe someone pushed him up against a wall and-

Clint’s got a concussion; he can’t be held responsible for his thoughts.

“You-“ Bucky starts.

“Saved the day with my quick thinking and panache,” Clint says. He’s not one hundred percent on what panache is, but James Bond has it, so it’s probably smooth.

“-almost died,” Bucky says flatly. “I watched you climb up that curtain. I thought you were about to be shot. And I couldn’t _move_.” His voice is flat, blank, and his eyes are boring right into Clint’s brain.

“I was fine,” Clint says. “I created a distraction first.”

“It was a terrible distraction.”

“I only had table knives.”

“You…” Bucky pauses and takes in a deep breath. “Thank you for saving my life. But never do that again.”

“If I hadn’t done it then-“

“Iron Man’s suit was recalibrating to eliminate the sound,” Bucky says.

“Oh.” Clint deflates a little. So he hadn’t saved the day. Right. Of course not. He’s just… him. He’s not a superhero.

“An’ if you get yourself killed I’ve gotta pay the rent by myself or find a new roommate,” Bucky says. He reaches out to squeeze Clint’s hand gently with his right hand. “Sounds like a lot of hassle.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking down at where their skin is touching. His brain’s not working properly, so he can’t quite work out what this means. Does it mean anything at all? “Wouldn’t want to make you do that. You might find someone better and forget about me forever.”

“Don’t think that’d be possible,” Bucky says. His voice is rough with meaning that Clint can’t quite bring himself to understand. He feels like there’s something in Bucky’s expression that means something, but he can’t translate it right now.

“I don’t…” he starts, but Bucky shakes his head.

“I know,” Bucky says. How can Bucky know when Clint doesn’t even know how he was going to finish that sentence? “It’s fine, Clint. You need to rest. You’ve earned it.”

A lot has happened today. He almost got shot. He met Iron Man. Captain America said he was a good man. He says that last one out loud because he needs it to be spoken. A hand strokes over his forehead gently. His eyes are closed. When did that happen?

“He’s right, Bucky says. “Now sleep.”

That sounds like a good idea.


End file.
